


oh, the weather outside

by annundriel



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: A blizzard keeps Jack and Bitty trapped inside their apartment without any power.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter originally posted [here](http://annundriel.tumblr.com/post/157001669972/prompt-request-a-blizzard-keeps-jack-and-bitty).

It’s snowing. It’s been snowing since…well, Bitty honestly can’t remember when it started. Sometime the previous evening, he thinks, after he and Jack had made it back to Jack’s apartment after the game, the prospect of an off weekend spent together bright and shining before them.

Honestly, Bitty’s hard pressed to remember what the weather was like on the drive home, distracted as he was by the way the streetlights played off of Jack’s cheekbones, the way his eyes lit up as he looked at Bitty across the seat. The perfect curve of his smile and his hand and Bitty’s heart pumping with anticipation and the adrenaline of watching Jack win. All he’d wanted was to be back in the apartment, several floors and doors shutting out the rest of the world.

As he looks out at Providence from Jack’s living room, at the white-muffled world and flakes he swears are big as his palm still falling, Bitty thinks he’s gotten his wish. He wiggles his toes in the thick socks Jack kept stored in his drawers just for Bitty, and sighs when Jack presses a hand to his waist and a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Forecast warns for blizzard conditions. Good thing we weren’t planning on going anywhere, eh?”

Bitty laughs, leans back into the warmth of him. “Lucky us,” he says, and means it. Everything is perfect, everything is–

The television, paused on one of Jack’s documentaries, flickers once, twice, and then goes black. For a moment, they both stare at it, and then, frowning, Bitty says, “Did the power just go out?”

He tries to push down panic at the idea. He’s warm now, but so is the apartment. Because of the heat. Because of the power. But if there’s that much snow and it’s that cold outside, what’s he going to do if–

Jack pulls away, and Bitty turns to watch him as he tries the remote, brow furrowed, and then moves to the light switch near the kitchen.

“Huh,” Jack says.

Bitty rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around himself. “What’re we going to do?”

“Wait it out? We’ve got plenty of food, and this is a newer building? The insulation should be good. Plus, gas stove. Gas fireplace. Plenty of blankets.” Jack grins. “Aaaand someone likes to tell me I put off heat like a furnace. We’ll survive.”

His confidence is comforting, and when Jack instructs him to get the extra blankets from the hall closet while he fiddles with the fireplace, Bitty goes readily, happy for something to do.

When he comes back, blankets in arms, there’s a fire and Jack has pushed the coffee table to the side and pulled the cushions from the sofa to spread them out in front of it.

“Impromptu picnic?” Jack asks, eyebrow raised. “You, me, and…the floor?”

With a laugh, Bitty shuffles forward, dumping the blankets on the cushions to free his hands and reach for Jack. Jack who comes easily, always, when Bitty reaches for him. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “Who knew my boyfriend was so ridiculous.”

Jack smiles into the kiss Bitty pulls him down for. “Everyone who follows you on Twitter? You tell them often eno–hey!”

“I’ll make hot chocolate on the stove,” Bitty says, holding back a chuckle as Jack rubs at the rise of his ass.

In the kitchen, Bitty pulls out a saucepan, milk, sugar, and chocolate. He takes his time, and when it’s perfect, when the smell of the chocolate fills the kitchen, he pours two mugs and carries them to the living room where Jack is…

“Oh, honey,” Bitty sighs, taking in the best of pillows and blankets, the fire in the hearth, the candles Jack has lit nearby on the coffee and side tables. Cool gray light pours in through the windows, but the rest is flickering and golden and Bitty is speechless, his heart warm.

“Come on,” Jack says, patting a spot beside him. “I saved you a spot.”

Bitty hands him his mug and curls beside him, lets Jack pull and tuck and sort until the whole mess his to his apparent liking and Bitty is under an arm, back pressed against the couch. It’s toasty and warm, and Bitty’s heart feels too big in his chest for all the love he feels for Jack solid and steady beside him.

“I’ve never been in a blizzard before.”

Jack’s arm around his shoulders squeezes him closer. Bitty can smell Jack’s shampoo and body wash, a hint of his deodorant. (They’d kissed in the shower earlier, wet hands exploring wet skin, mouths happy and eager, and Bitty had marveled at the turn of his life.) “Don’t worry,” Jack says, lips brushing the shell of Bitty’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Bitty shivers and smiles, takes a sip of his cocoa. Loves Jack with every fiber of his being and knows, without a doubt, that they’ve got each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack loves the way Bittle fits against him, his shoulders the perfect width for Jack’s arm, his hands the perfect size. They snuggle in front of the fire, their nest of blankets warm and soft, and Jack tangles their fingers together before bringing them to his lips to kiss. He grins when Bittle sighs against him, shifting and pushing closer. Jack’s never minded the cold; with Bittle at his side, he hardly notices the steadily falling flakes on the other side of the windows.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?”

Bittle sighs again, a happy sound that sends warmth flooding through Jack. His head lolls against Jack’s shoulder. “No place I’d rather be.”

Jack smiles and noses at Bittle’s hair, breathes deep and smells his shampoo, his body wash on Bittle’s skin. They’d made out in the shower earlier, tongues lazy after the morning they’d had between the sheets, and something stirs, hot and wanting, in Jack’s belly at the reminder, the memory, the smell of Bittle against him.

He presses a kiss to Bittle’s hair, another. Bittle shifts, head tilting, and Jack nips lightly at the curve of his ear, his breath catching when Bittle’s does.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low and thick.

“Mmhm,” Bittle hums. His fingers tighten around Jack’s. They’re good fingers, good hands; Jack’s watched them hold hockey sticks and rolling pins, seen Bittle knead dough and patch scrapes. Bittle’s hands have shaken with hurt and fear and anger, and Jack has seen him rise beyond time and again.

God, he loves him so much.

He brings Bittle’s hand to his lips again, kisses the knob of each knuckle. As Bittle moves against his side, his heart thuds.

“Jack,” Bittle says, “what’re you—”

He presses a kiss to the back of Bittle’s hand, moves to mouth at the rise of his wrist. Breathes and feels Bittle shiver. “I want to kiss you.”

“Honey, you—”

“Everywhere.”

“Oh,” Bittle says, and Jack can feel him stiffen beside him. “Well. If that’s what you have in mind…”

Jack kisses the column of Bittle’s neck, savoring the sound of his breathless laugh.

“By all means, I won’t stop you.”

“Yeah?” Jack shifts, untangles their fingers. Pulls away only as far as necessary, reluctant even as he’s eager for the inevitable, more nude, reunion.

Bittle nods as Jack moves him, as he lets himself be moved. “Yeah,” he says, and there’s color high in his cheeks, the firelight flickering against his skin and hair. Jack’s struck—again, again and again and again—by how beautiful Bittle is, how lucky _he_ is. How easily he could have missed this.

The tenderness he feels in his chest is almost unbearable.

Swallowing, Jack’s hands find the hem of Bittle’s t-shirt. Fingers slipped beneath, he pushes up and up until Bittle raises his arms and then the shirt is gone and Bittle is letting Jack push him bare chested back into the warm nest of blankets and cushions. He glows like this, the light from the fire playing over the pale planes of his chest, and Jack’s fingers itch to touch, to reach for his camera and preserve Bittle here like this in his apartment for all those days when he’s not.

That would mean leaving, though, abandoning Bittle, and why would he do that?

He stays, allows himself to touch instead, fingers skimming Bittle’s abs palms fitting against Bittle’s ribs. “Bitty,” he says, shifting where he kneels between Bittle’s spread thighs. “You’re so—”

He’s never been great with words, and they don’t so much fail him now as prove completely inadequate for the quiet jumble of feeling at the center of his chest.

“I’m?”

Beautiful. Wonderful. A gift. A miracle. He is any number of precious things.

“I love you,” Jack says in lieu of an answer, and watches Bittle’s blush overspill his cheeks to his neck, his chest. “I love you,” he says again (because he can) and bends to chase that rising color with his mouth.

Bittle’s skin is warm beneath him, smooth. He shivers under the careful press of Jack’s kiss, breath catching when Jack parts his lips, tongue flickering.

“Jack,” Bittle sighs, his fingers finding Jack’s hair, burying themselves there. He doesn’t tug, but he could; the thought sends anticipation—hot and bright—shooting under Jack’s skin.

He kisses, mouth moving lazily, and Bittle lies still, fingers carding through Jack’s hair. When Jack looks up, mouth in the vicinity of Bittle’s navel, he finds Bittle watching him with eyes dark as molasses, warm as the fire in the hearth. Not breaking contact, Jack bends and kisses here, there, savors the feel of strong muscle beneath soft skin. He follows the dips and planes of Bittle’s abs, follows the curves of muscle to his chest. Becomes distracted—focused—by Bittle’s nipples, dusky and perfect and begging for Jack’s tongue.

Or maybe it’s Jack’s tongue doing the begging.

When Jack laps at one, the tip of his tongue dragging against Bittle’s skin, the fingers in his hair tighten. Jack moans, lips closing around it, and Bittle keens. The sound goes through Jack, straight to the core of him. He sucks, pausing to kiss and nuzzle, his hands free and tracing paths on Bittle’s skin, noting places for next, for later. Fingers slip along the waistband of Bittle’s sweats as Jack traverses the span of his chest. Bittle shivers again, muscle trembling, and Jack pulls away.

“Okay?”

Bittle’s cheeks are pink, his mouth red and wet. His eyes dark. Jack’s heart skips a beat. He swallows.

Bittle swallows, too, lips pursing, and nods. “You silly boy,” he says, voice catching. “It’s more than okay.” He pauses, one hand slipping low to tug at Jack’s shirt. “Would be better if this were gone.” He pushes up into Jack and, _oh_ , Jack can feel him through the layers of their clothes, hard already. “Put us on a more even footing.”

With a grin and a nod, Jack sits back on his heels. “Whatever you want, Bits,” he says, and then he’s pulling the shirt off and Bittle’s hands are on him, warm and firm and—“Hey!”

Bittle’s laugh brightens the room. “Sorry.” He flattens his fingers against Jack’s torso, stops tickling. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Uh huh.”

If someone had told Jack a year ago that he would this, that he _could_ have this, he wouldn’t have believed them. He would’ve wanted to, but that vision of the future would have been blurred, a bright impossibility. Looking at Bittle now, smiling and mischievous and glowing, Jack thanks his lucky stars that life worked out.

Wrapping fingers around Bittle’s wrist, Jack brings his hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the center of Bittle’s palm. Watches Bittle beam. Jack smiles, happiness tucked against skin, before taking one of Bittle fingers between his lips and sucking.

Bittle’s hips buck, his eyes going wide. “Jack,” he whines, breathless.

It’s easy, moving from Bittle’s hand to his wrist, his forearm. Easy to kiss and kiss until they’re pressed chest to chest again, skin hot and hearts racing. In the background, the fire crackles. Outside, snow keeps falling, but here, now, Jack’s hands find the waistband of Bittle’s sweats as he sits back to pull them off.

They disappear somewhere behind him, joining their shirts in the dim apartment. Later, Jack—or Bittle—will pick them p and they’ll redress, hands distracted by still bare skin. Bittle’s laugh will ring out, bright as bells, and Jack will kiss him, giddy with the knowledge that this is only the beginning. At the moment, though, nothing outside of the golden glow from the fire matters, and Jack leans in, chest tight with anticipation, and presses his mouth to the shadowed line of Bittle’s hip.

Against his scalp, Bittle’s fingers scritch. “I like where this is goin’, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack hums, lips parting to suck a line of marks downward, something for Bittle to have later, when they’re apart. (And isn’t that a thought, Bittle breathless on the phone to Jack, fingers pressed to the marks Jack left?) He kisses and sucks and when he wraps his fingers around the base of Bittle’s cock, his lips around the head, Bittle keens.

It’s good like this. Bittle’s on his back, legs cradling Jack. His hands in Jack’s hair, his cock in Jack’s mouth, nothing but the sound of Bittle’s gasping breaths and moans and his own blood rushing in his ears.

Bittle’s skin is hot beneath the hand Jack keeps at his hip, sweat gathering. He feels the strength there, Bittle’s muscles and joints primed for movement and waiting, waiting for Jack to say the word. He will, eventually, because he likes the sweet burn of Bittle at the back of his throat, the subtle reminder later that he’s been used. But he likes this, too, the aborted sounds and shaky breaths of Bittle’s before he’s ready to say _please_ , to take what he so clearly wants and what Jack so clearly wants to give.

The taste of Bittle heavy on Jack’s tongue, the shape of him perfect between his lips, Jack shifts his grip at the base and sucks gently. Careful at first because he’s always—always? Maybe when they’re not desperate for it— _usually_ careful. Thorough, maybe, is the better word. Unrushed—no. No. There have been too many articles of clothing ruined because they had to rush. Not now.

Jack sucks at Bittle, takes his time because time is all they have. Bittle sighs and moans, flexes beneath Jack’s had as his fingers flex in Jack’s hair.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and, “Oh,” and, “ _Jack_.”

Jack could stay forever in the cocoon they’ve made for themselves. Warmth from the fire, from Bittle’s skin, the sound of their breathing filling the air. What does Jack need, really, that isn’t already here in the walls of his apartment?

(Hockey, yes, hockey. That and this and the world around them.)

Bittle moans, squirms, and Jack watches him through his eyelashes. Their eyes meet across the span of Bittle’s bare stomach and then Bittle’s eyes are slipping shut and his mouth is falling open and he’s coming against Jack’s tongue.

Jack swallows, throat working. He misses some, and when he pulls off he licks at the corners of his mouth, grins at the way Bittle watches him red-cheeked and big-eyed.

It never gets old. It will never get old.

“Good?” Jack asks, voice hoarse.

Bittle nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers twitch against his hip. “Jaaaack.”

Leaning in, Jack nuzzles at that spot, kisses Bittle’s fingers. “Yes?”

“I want…”

“Hmm?”

Silence, and then, “Come on me.”

Heat sears Jack to the bone, pulses through his veins. He could, and easily. A hand quickly applied and—

“Fuck, Bits, yes,” he says, sitting back on his heels, kneeling between Bittle’s legs. “Yes. How do you—Where—”

Bittle laughs, the sound low in his throat. It tumbles through the air between them, round and rolling. “Just like this, honey. All over.”

With fumbling fingers, Jack gets the drawstring of his pants undone, pushes them down, out of the way. He knee-walks closer, and Bittle spreads his legs wider in the nest of blankets on the floor. With one hand, Bittle touches himself, pads of his fingers against his nipple. With the other, he touches Jack’s hip. All Jack can do is take himself in hand and watch as Bittle’s gaze—so focused, always focused—moves from Jack’s face to the movement of his hand around his cock.

It doesn’t take long, not like this. He almost regrets that, but he knows they can do this again, take more of their time. There’s no hurry, not with Bittle, no clock counting down to the end. This is it, this is everything Jack wouldn’t let himself want on top of everything else he would. It’s damn near perfect, though he knows it isn’t, and it’s _his_.

When he comes, it’s with Bitty’s name, with Bitty spread out before him. With Bitty’s fingers at his hip and Bitty’s mouth soft and kissable and jack’s heart in the palm of Bitty’s capable, gentle hands.

Jack kneels there between Bittle’s thighs as Bittle touches the mess on his skin, as he lifts his hand to touch his fingers to his tongue. Jack shivers, and Bittle grins.

“You’re not cold, are you?” Bittle asks, eyes teasing.

“How could I be, when I’ve got you?”

Bittle blushes and laughs and calls Jack ridiculous and sweet. Asks him to get a towel. Jack goes, not a care in the world, eager to get back to the fire, the blankets, and Bittle.


End file.
